a Meditation in Paris
by wendela
Summary: a one-shot. A short morning-walk with Erik through beautiful Paris,to ponder the events in Perros-Guirec... and meditate over the idea for the possability of a falling chandelier.


**After Perros-Guirec, before he took Christine down to his lair, what was Erik doing, and thinking? A short journey through his mind- and a short journey through Paris. Erik as a guide in the queen among cities.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Erik, all credits go to Gaston Leroux. I do not own Paris (doh). And I do not own 'the Jewel song' by Charles Gounod, Marguerite's Aria in his opera 'Faust'. **

**A Waking City, an Awakening Idea**

All my dreams are gone… all the tears have dried… Sleep alone could ease my mind….and sleep was what did not come. I crawle out of my black caverns and take a walk outside. By moonlight- but compared with my dark corridors it seems so bright like it was day. The moon is only a small streak, not even a sickle. It is quiet outside, and the air itself seems to be pulsing with tenderness. It is late in autumn now, but one couldn't tell by the temperature. It's warm behind the mask, and since the streets are deserted, no soul outside at this late – or, rather, early – hour, I take it off. That piece of fabric is only comfortable when there are curious eyes around.

Christine, she believes in me, dear girl, she came, bewitched by my wicked voice, dear innocent child, she doesn't know my voice is not angelic. She thought it was her own decision, to become devoted to her angel… I worked a spider web of music around her soul. Isn't that the greatest magic? I want you, Christine, you can't imagine how I want you... all, all of you, with your eagerness and passion.

I enter Les Tuileries, the gardens of the Louvre. Once strictly forbidden for all, except those in close vicinity of the king, now a public place, open for everyone who wishes some diversion. The park is empty now, all the tourists and day trippers are gone. I can imagine how they swarm around here like a plague of grashoppers during the day. But when I enter the gardens not a sound is heard. I step into the rain paddles from a few hours before. I love these peaceful silences! Sometimes I dare enjoy taking walks like this, at hours when the nightly revellers have gone to sleep, but when those forced to wake up early, are not awake yet. I dare coming out of my kingdom and walking around in the world above, like any ordinary everyday person. I walk to the edge of a pond and let my hands drift slowly through the water. While the coldness of it is climbing up my wrists, I sink in my own thoughts.

My devils are disturbing me, more than ever. When looking back, the whole case seems madness. I'm sick of love, I, composer, architect, conqerer of tricks… a lovesick puppy. For no more than a child she remains! It was madness too, daring to go so far away from my lair to Perros-Guirec for the sake of that child. I promised myself once not ever to leave my hiding place again… but she asked her angel to come with here…and for her, I left without a second thought, like a normal man on a business trip. When I must take care of her happiness again, she should be at my side. But this thought is confusing as well. I'm wandering in my own mind ― and can't find my way! Not to find your way ― that's helplessness. And helplessness is frustrating.

Am I not a magician? Ha! I can conjure things up out of nowhere and make them disappear by the slightest move of my hand; I can close and open doors when I don't even see them; I can create things no one can even imagine. Maybe it's good for the world of mirrors and reflections not to know of my greatness ― how could they understand it without losing their sanity or whatever it is they call their sanity?

There's only three things I cannot do…

I can't conjure up another man's soul, I can't make the monster disappear, and I can't win another person's heart… no wait…. Erik, why are you such a coward as to conjure up some 'monster' idea out of nowhere? You know perfectly well it's your face!

I softly run my hand through the water again. A wooden duck floats upon the ruffles appearing on the surface. There are more of these in the pond. For some patronizing reason the emperor thought these fake animals would be entertaining for the bourgeoisie which takes over the park during the day. How ridiculous! An emperor who gives his civilians wooden ducks! And what this beautifully designed park must have cost… Why didn't he spend his money on some more useful accommodations, instead of rebuilding the whole city until it represented one big circus parade of the treasury? It seems, the higher people's social status, the more stupid they are. Like that vicomte! Sadistically I push the wooden animal under water with its head by the thought of _that boy._ How I threw the skulls at him at Perros-Guirec… his face when he saw mine… The little mariner thought he was so smart! One look upon me and he fell unconscious, peeing in his pants like a crying baby. Haha! He was found in the morning, too weak to walk back by himself. He must've lain there several hours before someone found him. I don't want to know what his pants must've smelled like! I wish he'd frozen to death at that graveyard.

At the Iceland in the middle of the riverthe bells of the Notre Dame begin ringing. Its sound is strangely disturbing above the quiet, peaceful city. What time is it? 5 o'clock? 6 o'clock? How long have I been here? Paris is waking up ― I have to go back before I scare the living out of some poor innocent souls. When I let loose the duck, it pops up again with the same stupid mindless wooden smile as before. Will that vicomte also pop up again, every time I try to push him away? He hasn't learned from the lesson I taught him at Perros-Guirec; he's already trying to contact her again. But she ignores him. Good girl! She's devoted to her angel!…. Oh how I wish she was devoted to Erik as well… Christine… the tought of her brings a rouse of pain and desire, which I push away quickly. _I would sell my soul for love._ One love, one life beside me… but my soul isn't worth anything… it wouldn't be enough for that reward. Love… Just one love… what need do I have of my soul anyway?

I've set everything in motion for her arrival. If I should ever allow her to arrive, to enter my world… I'm still not sure if I should. It was more the foolish realisation of a childish dream than truly preparing for the arrival of a guest. A very dear, beloved guest… I decorated a spare room… my house is large enough… I put all the furniture she would like in it, and all the clothes and shoes she would need… The most beautiful items I could find, no less for her. The most fragile velvet, lace, satin… Just before I left home for my nightly walk, I ran the fabrics through my hands, dreaming of how she would appear in them. How I wish I could give all of these to her… to overload her with treasures and gifts. Like I overloaded that boy with a pile of skulls at Perros-Guirec!

But Christine, what would you do when I lead you into my domain? Would you be frightened… shocked… surprised… bewitched… impressed… blissed? I shall lead you, oh I shall always lead you ― to understand the truth and deception of sight and sound. In my underground kingdom you will need the skill. Here I will really teach you. But know that entering a maze of mirrors is dangerous. Wait, Christine: it's not the time for you yet to pass through the corridor leading to my domain... You need some training first.

One by one the stars in the dark velvet-blue sky dissapear, replacing a magnificent sight of pink, blue, orange and even some traces of purple. As though a grand artist is painting a masterpiece. And Paris is coming alive! I can hear the sounds of living beings around me, waking up, starting a new day, but I cannot see them yet. The streets are still deserted. But who will take notice of one dark stranger, wrapped in a cloak? When I leave Les Tuileries, I stamp my feet in a pile of fallen leaves, still damp from the rain. I can smell it through the mask, which I put back in place when the sun rose. Not ever has one sun beam touched my dead skin. I walk back over the Champ Elysees, past the Palace Royal, the Louvre… If I turn around, the Arc de Triomphe is visible in the distance. In the light of the upcoming sun it's like a giant dark guard, watching the sunrise and the city's awakening just like me. My concerned, disturbed mood is replaced with a more joyful one now. A strange, shivering idea came up in my mind some time ago, but I pushed it away. Too big, too… overreacted. Only a beast would come up with something like that… but then, only beasts live underground and hide in holes, don't they? But the idea makes me somewhat enthousiastic in a strange way. The image of a rain of glass and splinters has pinned itself in my mind.

A loneley clochard appears at the end of the street. It seems as though he's not in a hurry, just like I am not. We saunter towards eachother. Suddenly the man is aware of my presence ― he feels my eyes? His head shoots up, and he stands still, for only a few seconds. Then he turns around and walks towards the other side of the street. He can't see my face, I'm sure he can't. The hood of my cloak is too far over my face to see more than a shadow. I made myself very sure of this once. Now, what's so scary about a lonely figure, slauntering the streets, wrapped in a black cloak? It's only early in the morning, there's no one in the streets, what does he need to be afraid of? But I don't really care. What did I ever care about the welfare of others ― they never cared about mine.

Now I come to the Lafayette neighborhood. They cleaned out the graves some years ago, replaced the cemeteries by beautiful hotels and rich shopping centres. But the smell of death is still around ― will it ever disappear? The happy citizens are not aware of this smell; they're too involved in their own little business. But when the streets are deserted, like now, it's quite penetrating. I've always wondered whether my sense of smell is better than most people's, but it's impossible to compare people's olfactory's senses, isn't it. Haha. Sometimes it seems like I smell more than most people do… almost like an animal! I wonder what it is to have a nose? I've never had big troubles being without one, apart from those few times I had a cold, hahaha… now Erik, it seems like you're gay this morning! Making fun of your own disfigurement… but that makes things easier to bear, doesn't it. Yes, I feel rather happy, suddenly. I take notice of the birds… just so early up as I am today. I notice other smells, from the market nearby. Fresh bread, flowers, newly arriving cars with vegetables. The market is built up for its first early costumers. I love Paris when it is like this! I walk in the direction of the market, jumping aside for a passing car, catching a falling apple from the tonnage just before it hits the ground. Breakfast, hm? I push aside my thoughts, enjoying the bite I take in the fresh fruit. But it's really time to return to my dark caverns, to my hole, hiding again like a beast for the light and the civilized world… My voluntary imprisonment. Although I'd rather wander around some more, dreaming of love, light, freedom. _Libera me!_

There are those who wander around the reflection mazes. Them stupid managers, for example, who don't even try to look around and go, seeing only the illusions of what they want to see. Madame Giry, who was so easily lured into my tricks that I would have problems with the thing other people call conscience if I had one. But angels need no conscience, do they? And this Carlotta woman… Oh, spare me from listening to that woman's singing! She is awful. Everyone considers her to be a great singer ― I could produce better sounds using a rusty metal bar! At least, I would put some sense into it! No, I don't want to do anything to this La Carlotta but she will have a lot of problems if she doesn't remove herself from the stage tonight... These things do happen, madame! These unwilling new managers become very irritating; they're getting on my nerves. Why don't they just obey me, like Debienne and Poligny? Cowards those were… but Moncharmin and Richard are ignorant fools. Perhaps I should let them have a touch of the wrath of the Opera Ghost. A rather good touch. A hard, striking touch… Something that will leave its marks upon them. Something that will make them jump out of their shoes, quivering in a corner, too weak to disobey me ever again! A plan is boiling up in my mind. If they dare replace Christine by this arrogant woman again... Christine makes an excellent Siebel in Faust, but I want to see her singing Marguerite once more! She must be the star, have the leading role, no less… no less than that for the only star in my firmament.

My heart jumps by the memory of her tribute. How her voice started the Jewel Aria by Charles Gounod with that one long thrilling note… And then how her voice filled the auditorium!

_Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,_

_Ah! je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir,_

And then how her voice sang of Marguerite's excitement…

_Est-ce toi, Marguerite, est-ce toi?_

And climbed higher….

_Réponds-moi, réponds-moi, Réponds, réponds, réponds vite!_

And lower again at the point when Marguerite doubts whether her beautiful appearance was real…

_Non! Non! ce n'est plus toi!_

_Non...non, ce n'est plus ton visage;_

_C'est la fille d'un roi;_

My heart overflowed! Yes, my Christine… you are the daughter of kings… the daughter of angels!

_Ce n'est plus toi, ce n'est plus toi,_

_C'est la fille d'un roi;_

_Qu'on salut au passage!_

_Ah s'il était ici!…_

Anger rises up in my chest by the thought of those fools and that jealous cow of a Carlotta, who stands in the way of my diva and her triumph. Alright, messieurs ― if you don't have enough sense to see what's right in front of you in broad daylight, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur, and you will have to face the darkness ― maybe it will teach you to see!  
Yes, yes, I will carry out my plan if they do so… In excitement I finish the rest of the apple quickly and throw the core at a stupid pigeon. It flares up in angst, rushing its wings. Now, mister Opera Ghost, back to your Opera, and behave like a ghost again! I 'rush my wings' and flee into the Rue Scribe, running now.

Paris will shake on its foundations!

**A/N: I was inspired a bit by Irma la Douce. The beginning of that movie desribes how Paris is waking up, and how the city is a living being itself. I have only been to Paris once, for two weeks, two years ago. But I have been to the places described, and while writing this, it felt like I was there again. It felt like I was walking next to Erik, chatting with him amicably. How I long to be back in Paris now! What a pleasure it was to write this! I did some research, and there really were wooden ducks. (Not when I was there anymore, though) Just before Erik's period, while the Garnier Opera was built, the whole city plan was reorganized, the Haussman plans, which included removing some old cemetaries which were the cause of many diseases and plagues among the citizens in earlier centuries. But hey, I'm not here to give history lessons, I'm here to write!**


End file.
